


Through My Body, Out My Mind

by redeyedwrath



Series: Merthur Ficlets [4]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, First Time, Hand Jobs, M/M, Mild Angst, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining, Porn with Feelings, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-14
Updated: 2018-03-14
Packaged: 2019-03-31 08:57:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13971669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redeyedwrath/pseuds/redeyedwrath
Summary: Captain Arthur Pendragon walks in, waistcoat fitted and overcoat a deep red, contrasting his pure white cravat. The woman on his arm is… pretty; her dark hair a nice contrast to Arthur’s blond, a pearly white dress draped elegantly over her form. Merlin knows her name, he does, but he’s drunk a fair amount of wine and all he can focus on is Arthur.





	Through My Body, Out My Mind

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Let's pretend I've totally posted something in the past two months *coughs* and also that I have finished Second Chances (You know, the fic I said I'd finish two months ago) and that this isn't totally self-indulgent. I've always been a fan of Regency fics but I've never written any myself so I thought I should remedy that ^^
> 
> (Inspiration for this fic is shamelessly taken from 'London Spy' and 'Queers', both featuring Ben Whishaw who I am in love with)
> 
> Hope you enjoy ^^

_This beautiful feeling soars over the skies_  
_Moving through my body, out my mind_  
_It rises up and floods my brain_  
_This is fucking insane_ |  _Why I should feel this way_  
_Why I should feel the same_  
_Is something I cannot say_  
_Something I can't explain_  
---|---  
**— The Storm Before the Calm, Anathema** | **— Untouchable, Anathema**  
  
 

* * *

 

 

It’s always the eyes. A slip-up; a glance held a bit too long, dragged off to one side. The quirking of lips, raising of eyebrows. A finger, twitching in the direction of a closed-off room. Footsteps echoing in the dark, breathing heavy as they race so as to not be seen. Heart pounding out of his chest, fingers clenching in the sleeves of his coat.

He’s been there before, slipping away in the dark, knees knocking together and palms sweating. Lying on a bed in a guest room that’s rarely used, sheets dusty but comfortable enough to be pressed into. A hot presence between his legs, firm and unyielding; undeniably, unapologetically male.

A sip of his wine, then another, his lips stained a dark red. They must match his cheeks. Most people will chalk his flush up to drunkenness, or quite possibly Freya’s attentions, but Merlin can only think of his and Gwaine’s escapades the last time he went to such a party.

Freya’s hand is on his elbow, holding him to her as she talks on. Merlin smiles idly and takes another sip, gazing at the dancing couples. Unfortunately, Gwaine seems to be absent, so Merlin takes to watching his friend Lancelot twirl a pretty dark woman around. It’s not that he doesn’t care for Freya, he loves her dearly and will most likely marry her one day, though he will never share the affections she has for him.

Her dark eyes beg him to take her out to the dance floor, to take her hand in his and make a declaration of his intentions. The thought causes Merlin to spill some of the wine, and he discreetly wipes his hand on his coat; its dark blue hue will cover up any trace of the stain.

The wine is the sole thing that makes parties like these worth going to; too expensive and fruity, but Merlin’s never been one to decline alcohol when it’s offered to him. Freya’s still talking, hasn’t noticed that Merlin isn’t paying attention yet. Watching people prance around in the latest fashion gets boring after a while, and Merlin’s about to suggest they leave when there’s a commotion at the front of the room.

Captain Arthur Pendragon walks in, waistcoat fitted and overcoat a deep red, contrasting his pure white cravat. The woman on his arm is… pretty; her dark hair a nice contrast to Arthur’s blond, a pearly white dress draped elegantly over her form. Merlin knows her name, he does, but he’s drunk a fair amount of wine and all he can focus on is Arthur.

Evidently, Freya and Arthur’s companion are acquainted, as the woman drifts over to them the moment she spots them. This isn’t what Merlin had in mind for the night, exchanging pleasantries with those who will surely look down on him, so he drifts back, lets Freya socialise.

Then, for a second, it happens. Emboldened by drink and the thoughts in his head, Merlin looks, lets his eyes linger on the breadth of Arthur’s shoulders, his crooked teeth, his regal nose, the creases around his eyes, his lips. He imagines those lips on his, thinks about those hands holding onto him; hands that are undoubtedly capable and warm.

Imagination is a dangerous thing for a man like him. Flushing with heat and desire, he drinks the rest of his wine, careless as it drips down the corner of his mouth. He wipes it away with his thumb, wipes it on his coat, and then when he looks up…

Arthur’s eyes, straying to his lips and then down, down to his fingers and his shoulders, his legs. Red on his cheeks, a deep flush that Merlin knows so well. Back up his gaze goes, lingering on his waist, traveling up his neck and his cheekbones.

It’s only a moment, long enough to last an eternity yet too short to notice. Merlin lets himself be looked at, discreetly follows Arthur’s progress until Arthur’s eyes meet his own. Tentatively, he raises an eyebrow, just slightly, unnoticeable to anyone who isn’t paying attention. Arthur’s eyes, those blue eyes, dark in such a familiar way, widen imperceptibly, then they look away.

Softly, the corners of Merlin’s mouth turn up. The slip-ups, the flushing… Merlin remembers feeling like that, untried and untested, so unsure of himself, ashamed. Not knowing if something was wrong with him, if he was the only man to feel like this. The first touch, the first kiss, soft and warm and real in a way that nothing else had been. Earth-shattering, world-shaping. Once he tried it, he knew he couldn’t go back.

He makes a decision — reckless in a way he usually isn’t — to do something. Arthur meets his eyes again — blue, so blue, and filled with a conflict that Merlin’s intimately acquainted with — and Merlin inclines his head to where he knows the guest quarters lie, raises his eyebrows. It’s a risk, a big one; Merlin knows Uther’s views on men like him, calls them sinful and wrong, freaks of nature.

The prospect of jail, of worse, damp and cold and lonely until he’s nothing but an empty shell, always hovers over him, makes him careful. Arthur just stares at him, not maliciously, but curiously, head tilted in a manner that reminds Merlin of a puppy. It makes Merlin smile, his cheek dimple. Arthur’s gaze drifts down to that crevice, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down.

Abruptly, it slams into Merlin, that feeling he gets, sometimes, when he looks too long. The one that makes his toes curl with possibility, makes his heart race with the need to reach out and touch bare skin, to hold a man in a way that’s more than carnal, to keep him close. He’s breathless with it, the need to press close to Arthur, to smell him and trace over the calluses on his fingers and kiss him until they fall asleep.

Merlin’s breath hitches.

Slowly, Arthur nods. Merlin sets his empty glass down on a table, fingers clenched so hard around the stem that he almost breaks it. Though he’s the more experienced one, he lets Arthur make excuses for them; Arthur, infinitely more seasoned in social situations, who handles it with a grace and skill that Merlin has yet to gain.

While Merlin knows he should stop, knows it’s dangerous, he can’t help but look at the way Arthur interacts with Freya and his partner, ducking his head down bashfully when they laugh at something he’s said, his hands firmly clasped behind his back like he’s trying to stop himself from reaching out and doing something stupid.

Arthur looks up, gaze catching Merlin’s and nodding, eyes filled with a false bravado. Merlin can’t stop a small smile from slipping onto his face; Arthur Pendragon, renowned Captain of the Army, fearless even when he’s not. It makes Merlin want to put his hands on him, tear him apart with little brushes of his fingers until he looks at Merlin like there’s nothing else that matters.

Almost, Merlin tugs at his cravat. It wouldn’t be decent, though, so he turns around instead, takes a deep breath, then another and another, gathering his thoughts. There are footsteps behind Merlin, anything but hesitant, and they spur Merlin on to start walking, past the dancing crowd, to the gallery.

He feels like a little boy, the marble glinting with candlelight, breathless with the thought of what they’re going to do. Knowing Arthur’s presence is behind him, evidenced by the footsteps and the little glances Merlin keeps throwing over his shoulders, both calms and excites him, his fingers fidgeting with the sleeves of his overcoat.

Walking to the guest quarters is second nature to Merlin; Lancelot doesn’t care to ask, and doesn’t mind Merlin’s… proclivities, as long as he keeps to himself. There’s just another turn here, right around the corner until they stop in front of a heavy wooden door, dark oak shining with polish.

The soft thuds of Arthur’s footsteps comes to an abrupt halt, his breathing already heavy, flowing over the nape of Merlin’s neck, and Merlin hides a smile in the collar of his coat, laying a hand on the brass doorknob.

The guest quarters are exactly as he left them — they’re barely used, the servants told to keep out of them unless they have explicit permission from Lancelot. Knowing there won’t be any… interruptions is a comfort to Merlin, takes the everpresent weight off his shoulders — the guilt and the shame and the feeling of not being true to yourself.

His back to the bed, he looks at Arthur. Arthur, whose shoulders are hunched over, whose head is down, staring at his shoes. Arthur, whose breath is coming so fast Merlin can hear it from where he’s standing, who’s trembling with anticipation and… fear.

Carefully, Merlin takes a step closer, then another when Arthur doesn’t flinch. The light makes Arthur’s hair gleam, makes his features seem softer, rounder. They don’t say a thing, standing close to each other, warm and anxious.

Arthur is the one to break the silence.

“I — I don’t…”

And he sounds lovely, wonderful, voice wavering with insecurity and the thought of what they’re about to do, deep and masculine in a way that rolls over Merlin, envelops him and leaves him shivering.

Holding up his hand, fingers spread, Merlin waits. The distance between them is still proper, nothing’s happened yet. Arthur could still walk away if he wanted to, turn his back on Merlin and pretend he wasn’t about to do something most people would consider a sin. Though it would pain Merlin, would leave him with a hole in his chest and the aching thoughts of what could’ve been, he wouldn’t stop Arthur from leaving.

Arthur stares, eyes fixed on Merlin’s hand for so long that Merlin can feel his fingers start to tremble. Merlin glances down. Arthur’s fingers are twitching, like he wants to raise them, to do something, to touch Merlin.

So, Merlin waits, lets his muscles atrophy and his heart beat a painful rhythm in his chest. When Arthur’s hand moves, it’s shaking, fingers quivering with the weight of what he’s about to do. And Merlin, Merlin knows, and waits.

It’s warm. Warm, and firm, and capable and gorgeous. Arthur’s fingers lay on his, slightly shorter but broader, and every minute movement makes Merlin shiver, makes him want to pull Arthur closer until they’re indistinguishable from each other.

Arthur’s fingers curl around his, filling the gaps, calluses scraping against Merlin’s skin, a harsh reminder of the world outside of them, and Merlin has to bite back a gasp. There’s a red flush high on Arthur’s cheeks as he stares at their entwined fingers, and he’s so still, hardly even breathing, though Merlin can feel the pounding of Arthur’s pulse in his palm, the skin of his wrist where they’re pressed together.

Blue eyes wide, focused on their palms, Arthur stares, breathless — like this touch is an impossibility. Merlin knows how Arthur feels; the first touch, the first dare, so intoxicating and heady, Merlin squeezes Arthur’s hand until his knuckles turn white.

Arthur is breathing through his mouth, too fast, lips plush and parted. Merlin can’t look at anything else and lets himself look unabashedly, spurred on by that one single point of contact, the sensation of Arthur’s trembling fingers in between his own. Arthur’s cheeks are flushed a bright cherry red, warmth radiating off him.

Merlin leans closer.

It’s just a tad, barely enough to notice, but the points of their shoes are touching, their arms bent at an awkward angle so they can keep holding on. Arthur’s eyes flicker up to Merlin’s, blinking as if shocked out of a trance, and then his head dips down, the flush on his cheeks darkening.

He looks so lovely like this, cheekbones standing out in the candlelight, eyelashes casting shadows. Merlin is breathless with it, the feeling that this man, this impossible, beautiful man, is here with him, willing to do this. That Arthur’s hand is placed within his. That Arthur is swaying forward, close, so close their chests are touching.

Softly, Merlin nudges Arthur’s nose with his, a caress. The breath Arthur lets out flows between them like a promise, Arthur’s eyes half-lidded. Arthur peeks at him through his eyelashes, and Merlin has the sudden, shocking realisation that he’s taller. Arthur’s breath comes in quick, soft pants, eyes wide and blue and filled with awe and wonder and Merlin, who is but a man, Merlin _wants_.

“It’s alright,” Merlin whispers; Arthur’s trembling so hard, is so afraid. He trails a path down Arthur’s cheek with his nose, waiting, letting Arthur get used to this. His other hand — the one that’s not holding Arthur’s — comes up to brush Arthur’s elbow, hold him firmly. Safe. Close.

Arthur’s eyes are trained on his lips, yet Merlin can’t reciprocate, can’t stop looking everywhere at Arthur, the way the hair curls behind his ears, the curve of his cheekbones, everything he can see from how close they’re standing together. He’s never wanted to kiss someone more.

Licking his lips, eyes dilated so much he looks dazed, Arthur says, voice small, “I want — Can I…”

Merlin just manages to breathe out a _yes_ , wants to say more, so much more, but then Arthur’s lips brush against his. Merlin stops.

Another brush, another, _another_ , until Arthur presses more firmly against him, fists clenched in the lapels of Merlin’s coat, pushing so desperately, like this is all he’s ever wanted, and Merlin’s world narrows down to that one point of contact, the press of Arthur’s lips on his, too dry and slightly chapped and _perfect._

“Hey,” Merlin breathes, breaking away, covering Arthur’s hands with his. Arthur’s panting, his forehead coming to rest on Merlin’s shoulder and he’s so red, so warm, shivering in Merlin’s arms and Merlin can only pull him closer. Tentatively, Merlin brings his arms up to encircle Arthur’s shoulders, broad and trembling. “ _Hey_ ,” he repeats when Arthur’s shivering only increases. Merlin digs his fingers into the coat, hoping to ground Arthur, distract him from what he’s thinking. “It’s alright. You’re alright.”

They stand together like that, entwined, with Merlin feeling like he’s going to burst any second. He feels hot with the memory of Arthur’s lips on his, obsessed with the gentle, gliding movements; so much so his heart feels like it’s going to burst, his hands fisted in the fabric of Arthur’s coat to prevent himself from doing something Arthur doesn’t want.

Then, Arthur’s arms come up to drape around his waist, and his head tilts up, slowly. Their cheeks are touching — Arthur’s skin feels like it’s burning — and Merlin can’t look at anything but the shocking blue of Arthur’s eyes, eclipsed by his pupils.

“Can you —” Arthur says, lips brushing against Merlin’s again, and Merlin shivers, resisting the urge to frantically nod, and say _anything, I’d give you anything, whatever you want_. “Please…”

Merlin makes a soft, enquiring sound when Arthur doesn’t continue, nudges Arthur’s cheek with his own, trying to encourage him but not push him, never push him. Arthur lets out a breath, a sigh, which fans out over Merlin’s face.

“Kiss me,” Arthur whispers, voice wavering with fear and — and desire. “Again. Like you mean it.”

And Merlin does. He’s never meant anything in his life more — his entire existence narrowed down to the brilliant man who’s standing in front of him, so _brave_. His hands bury themselves in Arthur’s hair and he pulls Arthur closer until they’re kissing again, just lips, nothing untoward, not until Arthur opens his mouth and softly, slowly, slides his tongue over Merlin’s lips. And Merlin — Merlin wants to bury himself in Arthur. Wants to shove his tongue down Arthur's throat and his hand down Arthur's trousers and wants to be entwined so that he can't tell where he ends and Arthur begins, so that they're together and _whole_ , just this once, but instead he lets Arthur explore his mouth, lets Arthur take his time, lets Arthur get used to it, because he deserves nothing less.

They continue on like that, Arthur leisurely kissing Merlin until his trembling has dissipated and Merlin’s has started. He feels like he’s going to shake out of his skin: Arthur’s so close, so warm, so _willing_ , and Merlin’s just about to do something, _anything_ , when Arthur’s hands scramble under his coat. They’re warm and firm and big and everything Merlin wants, everything Merlin could wish for.

“Off,” Arthur whines when he can do nothing but move Merlin’s coat around a few centimetres, trapped around his shoulders as it is, and Merlin has to resist the urge to laugh with giddiness and the sense of _yes please finally_. “Please.”

Merlin takes a second to breathe — to calm himself, to remind himself that he’s the one who knows what he’s doing and has no cause for this nervousness — but Arthur’s hands keep pawing at his shoulders, nails digging in almost painfully with desperation until Merlin’s elbows are pulled back, trapped in his coat.

He pushes off his coat, throwing it somewhere, not caring where it lands, his eyes on Arthur as Arthur does the same. Arthur looks wrecked already: blond hair sticking up every which way, his shirt bunched from Merlin’s attentions, eyes wide and crazed and desperate. Merlin is willing to bet he looks much the same.

When they are both freed from their coats, when Merlin’s busy unbuttoning his waistcoat and his shirt at the same time, Arthur walks up and just rips it off, buttons scattering everywhere as he kisses Merlin again. This time Merlin doesn’t hold back, lets that white-hot feeling of _want_ and _need_ consume him as he lets his tongue glide against Arthur’s, hands fisting in the back of Arthur’s waistcoat, uselessly clawing at the material.

Though Arthur makes it difficult, he manages to regain some of his higher brain functions and does away with the waistcoat, shoving his hand through the buttons of Arthur’s shirt to touch warm, tanned skin, muscles bunching and quivering under his touch. It makes Merlin bite down on Arthur’s lip, vicious, and when Arthur whines he licks the hurt away.

Arthur pulls back to say something, but Merlin spots the doubt in his eyes and doesn’t let him. Instead, he pushes Arthur down onto the bed, trying to catch his breath but being unable to at the thought of _Arthur_ being here with him.

“God,” Merlin breathes. Arthur on the bed is a vision: his blond hair tousled and gleaming in the candlelight, his lips bruised and red, that infernal coat off and his shirt untucked from his trousers. He crawls over until he’s straddling Arthur, Arthur’s cock hard against his arse before he leans on his forearms to kiss Arthur again. “ _God_.”

“I fear,” Arthur pants, throwing his head back into the pillow. Merlin takes the opportunity to kiss down his throat, scraping his teeth over Arthur’s Adam’s apple. Arthur laughs, breathless, and it’s not a nice laugh; hard and grating and self-deprecating and it makes Merlin want to kiss him until he’s stopped thinking. “I fear God has little to do with these affairs.”

“What did He create us for, if not to love?” Merlin asks, and claws at the buttons of Arthur’s trousers: too frantic and uncontrolled, his heart beating in his chest. Arthur’s head tilts up, looking at Merlin doubtingly, chest heaving up and down, hand curled protectively on his stomach.

Trying to reassure him, Merlin smiles, and lets his hand trail from where it’s fisted in the sheets to Arthur’s thigh, the bristly hairs on his leg tickling as Merlin strokes upwards, over the unmistakable firm muscles of a man, to curl his fingers around Arthur’s. Softly, Arthur smiles back — it doesn’t reach his eyes, but Arthur lies back, head tilted, and Merlin feels overwhelmed with the amount of trust this man puts in him.

He wraps his fingers around Arthur’s cock, and he strokes once, twice; Arthur makes a choked, breathy sound, teeth indenting the skin of his hand where it’s shoved into his mouth, his other hand clenching around Merlin’s so hard the bones creak. Merlin tightens his grip, stroking harder, faster, determined to make Arthur fall apart, break that perfect façade.

The bed creaks when Arthur’s hip arch up, a series of “oh, oh, _oh_ ” escaping his throat as Merlin thumbs over the head, his other hand stroking up and down Arthur’s left thigh where the skin is pale and vulnerable.

The slap of skin on skin echoes through the room, so vulgar and masculine it shoots something down Merlin’s spine to his cock, pooling in his stomach, getting hotter and hotter with every groan of Arthur’s and Merlin’s wrist is starting to ache, tugging desperately on Arthur’s cock, wanting to make him feel good, wanting to give him everything he could ever ask for and…

“ _Merlin_ ,” Arthur groans, muscles tensing as he spends himself over his stomach and Merlin’s hand. Arthur’s seed is warm and sticky, and Merlin doesn’t waste a second, unbuttoning his own trousers and shoving a hand inside them before he can even think about it.

Arthur’s eyes are clenched tightly shut, spots of red on his cheek and seed pooling on his stomach, and Merlin is breathless with the thought that _he_ did that, he made Arthur feel that way, he made Arthur come apart and gave Arthur the first addictive taste of what it’s like, what it can _be_ like…

Arthur makes a soft sound after a while, lips shaping around it and it only makes Merlin even more desperate, but he says, not wanting to push Arthur, “I’m fine, it’s fine, God, Arthur…”

Merlin spends himself on Arthur’s stomach, marking Arthur in a way that isn’t permanent but might as well be. Merlin won’t forget this moment as long as he lives: Arthur looking up at him through half-lidded eyes, licking his lips as Merlin’s seed covers him.

Though he doesn’t quite remember how, Merlin ends up on his side next to Arthur: not touching, but _almost_ , so close that the hair on Merlin’s arm is standing up. He doesn’t dare to look over, not when he knows it will only lead him into more temptation.

It’s almost unnoticeable, the brush of Arthur’s fingers through his hair, starting out softly and slowly and becoming more pronounced as Arthur becomes more daring. Merlin allows himself a smile and presses into it, silently asking Arthur to go on.

After a while, when Merlin’s feeling okay, when the breathlessness has disappeared and Merlin’s sure looking at Arthur won’t make him feel so off-balance, Merlin turns to him, Arthur arm slipping from his hair to his shoulders. Arthur’s staring at the ceiling, absentmindedly trailing his fingers through the seed still on his stomach.

“Are you alright?” Merlin asks. Arthur nods, a smile making the corners of his lips curl up just a tad. Merlin understands, remembers his first time, remembers how he felt. The ache in his chest. The desire for more. The bone-deep, never-ending contentment. There are no words to properly describe what it feels like with a man.

“I should—”

Merlin catches Arthur’s elbow, trying not to sound desperate as he says, “Stay. You should stay.”

For a moment, Arthur’s eyes are wide with apprehension and fear and — God help Merlin — want. Merlin thinks of Freya, of Arthur’s own companion and yet, as reckless as he was when he asked Arthur to come with him, he can’t help but think _damn them all_. He wants to keep Arthur here forever, both of them together.

Arthur looks at him, his eyes — always the eyes — softening as he looks at Merlin, and Merlin dares not guess what he looks like right now, as he always feels too open, like Arthur’s burrowed inside of his skin and a part of him still remains there, just like a part of him has been given to Arthur.

“Okay.”

They can worry about later tomorrow. For now, Arthur lets himself be pulled back onto the bed, into Merlin’s arms, until his head is resting on Merlin’s chest. Enveloping Arthur’s shoulders with his arms, Merlin pulls him closer until there’s no room left between them. He wants to protect Arthur. To shield him from the outside world. Arthur curls into him, arms coming up to envelop Merlin’s waist, his nose digging into Merlin’s skin uncomfortably and it’s so perfect that Merlin never wants to leave.

Merlin presses his nose into the crown of Arthur’s hair, lets himself smell the sweat and _Arthur_ , and falls asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Aaaaaand that was it! Sorry if the porn sucked: I'm asexual and NSFW scenes are definitely not my strong point but it felt like the logical progression of this fic was leading me to that so I put my usual reservations aside and just wrote this. Anyway, I hope you liked it! Please let me know what you thought ^^
> 
> Also, thank you to [Fen](http://vanillawg.tumblr.com) and [Tori](http://king-of-derpalot.tumblr.com) for reading over this for me!
> 
>  
> 
> [If you really liked this fic, please consider reblogging the promo for it on Tumblr, maybe? Pretty please?](http://softmerthur.tumblr.com/post/171869121217/title-through-my-body-out-my-mind-rating)


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